


You Rolled The Sevens With Nothing To Lose

by sinuous_curve



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: BDSM, D/s, First Time, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-12
Updated: 2010-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-07 22:38:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/sinuous_curve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dallon decides during the first rehearsal with Brendon and Spencer, and Ian that he's going to do everything in his power to make this tour as easy as possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Rolled The Sevens With Nothing To Lose

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to justranda for the look over and lyo for listening to my incessant whining about how the first dozen drafts of this wouldn't pull together. f_lexi_ble, I hope this is what you wanted. ♥ Written for the help_haiti auction on LJ.

Dallon decides during the first rehearsal with Brendon and Spencer, and Ian that he's going to do everything in his power to make this tour as easy as possible.

*

 

On one hand, it's a little bit a dream come true for everyone involved, Dallon included. He figures he's really, really lucky to be able to say that he's toured with Blink-182. And even if he never gets any more famous than he is now, he'll always have that ace in the pocket to whip out. "You're a brain surgeon. Eh, that's cool, but I toured with Blink-182."

On the other hand, he's also quietly aware while he plays that everyone (maybe even up to and including Brendon and Spencer) wishes he was someone else to some degree or another.

The small consolation is that they also wish Ian was someone else and that means he's not alone in the world. Which is great. It's always better to have someone sort of in your corner, even if they're only there by chance and whatever happened to make Panic(!) split neatly in two.

*

 

And, really. It's not that Spencer and Brendon are ever anything less than incredibly nice to him.

Nice and grateful. It's weird, because Dallon honestly feels way more like they're doing him a solid than the other way around. Hits on anything Brobeck related skyrocketed after the Panic! fans found out who was filling in for them.

*

 

If Dallon gets famous, it'll probably be because of Brendon and Spencer.

*

 

From a purely observational perspective, Dallon picks up pretty quickly on a couple things.

One, Brendon and Spencer have that level of braintwin symbiosis that comes from being really good friends with someone in really tight quarters for a really long time. It's not even that they can finish each others' sentences, it's that they don't even have to start the sentences because the other already knows.

Two, Brendon and Spencer are both more upset about the split than they're willing to let on and less upset about the split than everyone expects them to be. And, weirdly, it's not too much of a contradiction to Dallon. He figures it's sort of like when parents get divorced; relief that it's happening and sadness that it ever got that bad to begin with.

Three, Brendon and Spencer are fucking.

*

 

Okay, to be totally and completely fair, he didn't figure out that last one through super awesome powers of observation. He is, sadly, not a superhero or a superspy or anything else really super.

(His mom says he's a supermusician. Dallon doesn't think that's true. Or that it counts.)

He sort of forgot to knock one night before going into the dressing room. And by the time the door swung all the way open, Brendon and Spencer weren't doing anything other than studiously looking in other directions. But Dallon isn't dumb either and he knows what come on Spencer's bottom lip looks like.

*

 

He gets why Brendon and Spencer tread carefully around him for a day or two.

The Mormon is a powerful force, yo.

*

 

But just for the record. Dallon doesn't care. He's found peace with bisexuality and Mormon-ality. They're not mutually exclusive forces.

*

 

Dallon actually used to keep a list of all the ways in which he is a…less than stellar Mormon. It began with drinking soda while he was on tour and accumulated and accumulated until he first exchanged handjobs with a guy in the backseat of a van.

It probably says something that it was the premarital part that struck him before the sorta gay part. And yeah, he angsted, because what's the point of having a good crisis of sexuality if you can't get in some quality angsting while you're at it?

And, in the end, he went the route of personal faith over religious ornamentation. Dallon believes in a loving God, he believes in a forgiving God, he believes in a God that you would want to chill with and share a couple beers.

He believes in a God that is more concerned with how he treats people and how he conducts his life than whether or not he sometimes gets bored and watched twink porn on the internet.

Big picture over a little details. Amen.

*

 

Brendon sort of apologizes by saying, "We weren't. I wasn't sure if you'd really get it or really not get it."

There's a weird kind of shared experience between them that Dallon's known about, but not really thought about until this moment, sitting next to each other on the bus couch. Brendon's picking at a hole in his jeans and they're both thinking about the pull of the Church, capital C, and how you can walk out the door, but never entirely get away.

"It's cool," Dallon says. "I mean. I really get it."

Brendon gives him a considering look, then smiles. "Spencer owes me ten bucks."

And they both laugh.

*

 

And they roll along, the band that is Not-Quite-Panic! By playing shows and fucking with Pete and all of them making gigantic starstruck eyes at Blink-182. It's like being in the presence of gods, or something like that.

*

 

Two things happen in the span of twenty-four hours that set a much larger thing into motion.

First, Dallon, in searching for a clean tee shirt that he's pretty sure fell into Brendon's bunk, finds a pair of well worn leather cuffs shoved under Brendon's pillow. They're red and soft from use, with silver buckles and thick metal rings.

Kneeling there, jammed in the plastic concavity that pretends to be a bed, Dallon's mind identifies them as a kind of kinky thing? For tying people up and shit. It's a quick jump from that to vague notions of guys in leather with whips to Brendon in leather with a whip and Spencer tied to a wall.

He kind of forgets about his tee shirt in how fast he beats a retreat.

Second, Dallon jerks off that night to the usual fantasies of guys and girls, except that fantasy someone twists to Spencer buckling cuffs around his wrists and holding him down while Brendon fucks him hard.

And he comes and Dallon doesn't precisely know how to deal with that.

*

 

Now Dallon's the one treading easy. Brendon watches him with concern written in his eyes and Spencer just watches, like he always does. Like he knows something and has chosen to keep it to himself.

*

 

The nice thing about Ian is that he one hundred percent understands feeling like the red headed step child of Panic! and is more than willing to find a quiet spot with a six pack of beer and get genially drunk while the tour surges and throbs around them.

"What," Dallon asks after two, "are you going to do next?"

Ian is a kid in a lot of ways, but he's also really fucking grown up in a lot of ways that count in Dallon's book. He swirls the remaining beer in his bottle and shrugs and smiles. "I don't even know, dude. Pick up and try again, I guess."

Dallon nods slowly.

He has that weird walking through water feeling rushing in his head. He keeps thinking about Brendon and Spencer; about come on Spencer's bottom lip and Brendon's fingertips.

*

 

It's a short tour, but not short enough.

*

 

"What's wrong?" Brendon asks.

"Nothing, dude!" Dallon says automatically, turning on the smile. "I'm great."

"You've been weird."

"Nah."

Brendon's fists are suddenly on either side of Dallon's head and, despite that fact that Dallon is way damn taller than him, he feels small. "Seriously, Dallon. What?"

Dallon feels overheated and flushed all over. Stupid, traitorous want starts to throb in his belly and hips, not giving one shit that Brendon is his kind of boss, that Brendon is already taken, that Dallon is really unsure how to feel about the fact that he apparently would be totally okay with Brendon tying him down and doing shit that would hurt in any other context.

"I found the cuffs. The red cuffs," Dallon says in a rush, squeezing his eyes shut. "I wasn't snooping. I was looking for my shirt. I saw them."

He can hear the steady inhale/exhale of Brendon's breath, then fucking fingers curl around his chin and Brendon jerks his face so they're staring eye to eye.

It's a long moment. Dallon expects to be yelled it. Bizarrely, he kind of wants to be yelled at.

"I see," Brendon says. Then he walks away.

*

 

Dallon fucks up a lot at that show. He would swear to God and heaven and anyone else that happened to be listening that Brendon spent approximately one thousand percent more time pushing into his personal space.

*

 

He jerked off to the thought of it again. Yeah.

*

 

So, it's not the thought of Brendon and Spencer doing…whatever it is they do that bothers Dallon. People should do what makes them happy is how he's always looked at it. (Providing they aren't hurting anyone else, etc, etc, etc) There's shit he doesn't get, but since it's not him, he doesn't have to get it.

It's the wanting to take part of it himself that's giving him a little trouble. A lot of trouble. Because you seriously shouldn't get to your mid-twenties and just now find out that's what you like.

*

 

It could be tour fatigue! It could be tour Stockholming him into wanting weird shit!

*

 

Spencer says, "Brendon said it was my choice, in the end, because he's all for it."

It's a little after eight in the morning and Dallon is drinking coffee and trying to clear sleep from his brain and crud from the corner of his eyes. He looks up, bleary, and wonders if Spencer is purposefully speaking an alien dialect of English or if it's just him.

"Huh?" Dallon says. Making syllables is impressive.

"Personally," Spencer says, "I think it should be more about what you want, so. Yes or no?"

"I." Dallon blinks. "I don't know the question."

Spencer's looking at him with a level of intensity that Dallon's pretty sure he'd be uncomfortable with at any time of day, but is particularly overwhelming when he's only consumed a minimal amount of coffee. He blinks, resisting the urge to play with the hem of hiss tee shirt or smooth his pajama pants over his thighs or turn cartwheels.

"Really?" Spencer asks finally, raising an eyebrow.

He leans in closer, until Dallon can feel puffs of warmth from his breath ghosting across his face. Spencer, turns out, smells great.

Dallon actually really wants to say something, anything. He wants to explain that he didn't mean to snoop and that he doesn't care, but that something is clearly crooked in his brain because he can't stop thinking about it and that's led to way more jerking off than he's used to. He wants to explain about Brendon's thumbs and his smile and even that Spencer smells like all the good things Dallon hasn't ever thought about it.

Instead? He just sort of. Squeaks.

Spencer chuckles, leans back, and runs a hand through his hair. "Okay, find one of us when you have an answer."

*

 

When Dallon was a kid, he used to go to temple every morning and be so happy, because it all seemed to make a very calm kind of sense. He sang with his parents and joked around with his friends. It was nice and comfortable.

He feels weirdly like he probably wouldn't trade what he's got now to go back to that.

*

 

The last show comes and Dallon has a weird moment of realizing he can now say with one hundred percent honesty that he has the phone numbers of all the members of Blink-182 and that, theoretically, he could call them and chat.

*

 

He's backstage with Brendon, literally two and half minutes before they're supposed to go on and play to a screaming crowd of kids who think all their musically dreams are coming true. Bands just don't reunite and play tours, except when they do and it's brilliant.

Dallon sort of feels he should be reveling in the moment more than he is or planning some kind of prank to the make the last set really memorable, but instead he's chasing the line of Brendon's throat with his eyes again and again and wondering how his life took so sharp and turn so fast.

"Spencer asked me a question," Dallon says, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. He wonders what would happen if he just, like, leaned down and kissed the crown of Brendon's head.

Brendon keeps his eyes on the stage. "Yeah?"

"So, like." Dallon swallows. His heart is doing weird, shuddery thumping things and his button down is already damp at the armpits. "Is it like, you tie him up and beat him up and stuff?" He's blushing so hard he feels like his face is probably visible from outer space.

Brendon turns at that, of course, grinning. "Well, sometimes when he's really good I let him tie me up and come on my face."

And then he's bounding onstage, reaching for the mike with all that pent up energy that he releases in short, brilliant bursts. Spencer's climbing the riser to his drums, twirling his sticks with concentration and happiness written on his features. Even Ian is grinning, adjusting the strap of his guitar while the stage lights dance crazily on his fro.

Dallon's a minute late, remembering how to breathe.

*

 

Yes, no, yes, no, Dallon still isn't one hundred percent sure what he'd be saying yes or no, too; he can't shake the feeling that the urge to find out is going to end up being stronger than the fear he won't like it.

The lights of the stage are usually a pretty great aphrodisiac, but Brendon's pushing into his personal space again.

*

 

Dallon has never really thought of himself as a reckless person. Like, some would argue that being a musician at all is sort of reckless in and of itself, but other than that. He's found his own way of getting through the days and weeks and a months and he does okay. But none of that is really recklessness, once he gets past the basic ridiculousness of trying to make a living selling your music to people.

If he makes a couple mistakes due to fumbled, distracted fingers, it's not really his fault. Existential crises excuse all manner of missed notes and shit.

There's Spencer drumming away behind him and Ian shredding in his world and Brendon, of course. Brendon singing to the crowd, because it's the only thing he'll ever really love to do. And, okay. Dallon watched him and thinks the answer is probably a lot easier than he wants to admit.

*

 

And then they're done. They're done and running off stage; Dallon grabs Brendon's wrist and yanks him closer, hisses, "Yes, okay. Yes."

*

 

The four of them make it backstage. They shower and get dressed again so they can go back onstage for when Blink calls them back on for a farewell song. Dallon's heart won't slow down in his chest and, even though all his secret twelve year old dreams are coming to an incredible crescendo, he's not thinking about that.

Brendon slides an arm around his shoulders and leans in, breathing hot and heavy against his ear. He breathes out, "We get a hotel tonight. If you're still sure."

Dallon's knees turn to water, but he nods.

*

 

Four hours later, he's sitting perched on the end of Spencer and Brendon's bed while Spencer and Brendon themselves are in the bathroom. He's shirtless, wearing his favorite broken down jeans, and trying not to fiddle with a loose thread in his knee. Behind the bathroom door, he can hear the faint rushing sound of the facet running and the low murmur of their voices.

Dallon sort of has no idea what he's doing. His skin is prickling in a weird, head-rushy way that's caught between nervousness and desire.

The door opens with a soft creak and Dallon jerks his head up. Brendon's leaning against the frame, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He's wearing black jeans a little looser than his usual ones; they're slung low across the sharp points of his hip bones. Spencer's in boxers, standing behind him.

There's a curious set to Spencer's shoulders. It's in the way he's holding himself, Dallon thinks, and the line of his neck and the way he's holding his head. Dallon realizes, belatedly, that he probably had a slightly skewed perception of how this whole thing works between them, but that's okay.

"Since you've never done this before," Brendon says calmly, "Stay stop and it will. Spence and I are a little beyond that, but this is a one-oh-one kind of night. Understand?"

Dallon nods.

*

 

The images Dallon's holds in his head of this tend more toward dark dungeons with iron manacles chained to the wall and women in latex and leather bearing whips. People getting called, "worm," and, "filthy little slut," and all that.

Granted, he's perfectly aware that Brendon isn't a lady in leather chaps, but still. He's a little surprised that the first thing Brendon does is cross the room, crouch down between his legs, and start running his hands up and down Dallon's thighs in long, slow, easy strokes.

"Do me a favor?" Brendon asks.

"Sure!" Dallon says, overeager and high pitched. Spencer, still standing in the doorway in that pose of odd obeisance, smiles.

Brendon chuckles. "Take a deep breath. Calm down."

*

 

Dallon inhales for five. Exhales for five.

When he's done and Brendon's still there, rubbing rhythmic lines along his thighs and radiating warmth and certainty, he does feel calmer, if nothing else.

*

 

"What do you like?"

"I don't know? I've never. You know. This is all new."

"I know that, what do you like as a general rule?"

*

 

Teeth. Dallon has always liked being bitten. Back in the day, when he was a Mormon teenager fighting to find a place in the church for himself and his kind of faith, he once ended up in the back seat of a car with a really awesome girl. They didn't do anything, really, just made out. But she bit down on his bottom lip and that was great.

Brendon absorbs the story with a smile on his lips that isn't patronizing, just sharing in the warmth of a memory.

"Okay," he says, standing. "Lay down on the bed."

Dallon's heart kicks back up as he shimmies along the bed. It's big and soft. The blankets rustle softly beneath his limbs. Stretched out with his head on the pillows, he can just push his toes past the end. Brendon gestures and Spencer walks over. He's hard through the thin, clinging material of his boxers and Dallon shivers.

"Hold on to the headboard," Brendon instructs. "Don't let go. Understand?"

Dallon wraps his fingers so tight he's pretty sure his knuckles bleed to white.

*

 

Brendon instructs Spencer to crawl up Dallon's body. He instructs Spencer to undo the fly of Dallon's jeans. He instructs Spencer to strip away Dallon's underwear. He instructs Spencer to do all of this with his teeth and Dallon is honestly, totally, completely impressed that Spencer can do it.

In that way, he's almost surprised to realize that he's naked and hard, caught in the cage of Spencer's solid limbs.

Spencer's bigger than Brendon, broader and heavier and more completely solid. But the look in his eyes holds a kind of easy acceptance that makes Dallon's breath catch and twist in his chest. It's want, caught between wanting to be Spencer and wanting to do to Spencer what he imagines Brendon does.

"Are you ready?" Brendon asks. Turning his head, Dallon finds Brendon naked and sprawled indolently in a chair.

"Yes," Dallon. "I. Yes, please."

*

 

Spencer crouched between Dallon's leg and peppers his hips and upper thighs with kisses sucked into bruises. When Dallon's hips come up off the bed, Brendon says calmly, "Smack him, Spencer," and suddenly sharp pain flairs on Dallon's hip.

He's shocked into slamming his hips back down on the bed. "Is that okay?" Brendon asks.

Yes. No. Dallon doesn't even know, but he's nodding anyway, because his body's decided to take over at this point.

*

 

"Do you want Spencer to suck you off?" Brendon asks.

Dallon's hard. Dallon's so fucking hard and he doesn't know how to give shape to the tangled vowels flooded into the back of his throat. He can't really feel his fingers anymore and some distant, unimportant part of his brain says it's probably going to hurt when he lets go.

"Dallon," Brendon says in a tone of low command. "You don't get anything if you don't answer me."

"Yes," Dallon spits out. His toes curl into the blanket. "Please, please. Yes."

"Spencer," Brendon says. "Do you want to suck Dallon off?"

Spencer's answer, "Yes, please, sir."

Brendon's jerking himself off, slowly and almost lazily in the chair. "Go ahead."

*

 

Spencer's really, really fucking good at this. Dallon doesn't know if that's because Spencer has talent or because Brendon's directing him with that calm, easy tone in his voice. He tells Spencer when to suck, where to suck, when to lick. Spencer's hand curls around Dallon's balls at Brendon's command and pulls lightly.

Dallon, for his part, realizes a little late the high pitched sounds he hears are coming from his own chest.

*

 

Dallon's hips are coming off the bed and Spencer's smacking him each time, but he can't stop, he can't. Brendon's fist is moving faster around his own dick and Spencer's mouth is hot and wet and tight and Dallon never imagined it would be like this, it would be this kind indescribable.

"Ask to come," Brendon says. His voices hitches just the littlest bit in the middle. "Dallon."

"Please," Dallon babbles. Maybe later he'll think about how strange asking for permission feels, but then again, maybe that'll be never. "Please, please, please, oh Christ, please."

"Yes," Brendon says and Dallon's vision whites out.

*

 

Then Spencer's sitting across his hips, hands curled into fists resting on his thighs. Dallon feels light and gone, boneless with residual aftershocks of pleasure.

"Tell me what you want, Spencer," Brendon says.

"I want to come on him," Spencer says.

What passes between them in front of Dallon's lazy eyes is something he isn't precisely a part of. But it's beautiful and powerful nonetheless and he wants, hopes, to be. Unexpected as that thought is. Brendon looks at Dallon and Dallon nods his assent.

"Go ahead," Brendon says, voice low and tight.

*

 

Dallon, as a point of interest, has never had anyone come on him.

Spencer jerks off with his bottom lip caught between his teeth and his hand tight around his dick. He looks at Dallon, is the thing, with his eyes so impossibly blue and his hair falling in his eyes. When he comes, it stripes on Dallon's stomach. It's warm and sticky and not as gross as he would have expected.

In the back of his throat, Spencer groans like his heart is being torn from his chest.

*

 

Brendon finishes himself off and Dallon thinks clearly _okay, voyeur_ without the repressed giggles he would have given it a month ago.

*

 

Dallon ends up laying in the center of the bed with the blanket pulled over him, Spencer spooned protectively along his back. Brendon cleaned them both up with a damp washcloth and now he's sitting propped up in bed, leaning against the wall. He absently plays with Dallon's hair and looks at both of them.

"What'd you think?" he asks.

Dallon smiles.


End file.
